


A Little Bit Of Everything

by Redlance



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Angst, Drabble Collection, F/F, Fluff, and everything in between
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2017-11-19 04:16:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redlance/pseuds/Redlance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is where I'm going to archive all the little ficlets/drabbles/whatnot that I happen to churn out over on tumblr, that don't really warrant their own separate story page.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

So I'm taking a leaf out of Racethewind10's book and will be archiving any one-shots that are probably too short to require their own separate upload here.

These were all written and posted over at my tumblr, you can find me there under Redlance. Some were prompted, other's practically provoked out of me, and some where inspired by some of the crazy talented artists and photoshop wizards that this fandom seems thick with. The fics will be unrelated and will probably differ in length, and there's a high probability that a fair few will be angsty. Though those of you who have read my stories have probably come to expect that.

Bering & Wells will likely be the main focus, though sometimes the other characters do come knocking.

Anyway, if all that sounds good and your interest has been suitably piqued, come on in...


	2. Simplicity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer** : Warehouse 13, the world and the characters that inhabit it do not belong to me in any way, though sometimes I lie awake at night wishing that they did and what I'd do with them if they did. And then I write those thoughts down.

* * *

     “Hello Myka.”  
     It's such a simple greeting. There are no flowers or fireworks, no instrumental accompaniment to the words. Words that are entirely unremarkable at their core.  
     A well-used salutation, a name.  
     Such unremarkable things indeed.  
     But the woman whose lips they leave is anything but.  
     And Myka knows that best of all.  
     Knows **her** , best of all.  
     Is known best by her in return.  
     And it's because of that she stands immobile. Shock along with a multitude of other nameless emotions coursing through her at a pace that is as blinding as it is terrifying.  
     She knows this woman, she's sure better than she knows herself, and yet she can't grasp how to react to the sudden appearance of her. It's as though all previous encounters between them cease to exist and at the surface they are strangers to one another, unsure of how to proceed. A friendly smile, a handshake perhaps.  
     Helena's lips quirk upwards, a hesitant motion. One born of uncertainty.  
     Myka blinks.  
     They are not strangers.  
     And it's as though a veil is pulled back.  
     Yanked unceremoniously from its place, obscuring her vision. Clouding her mind.  
     And suddenly everything is so much more clear.  
     And the cool, unfamiliar clarity cuts through her like a knife, pulling a quiet gasp from her.  
     Then, as if urged along by some invisible thread, she's moving forward.  
     Towards the woman who knows her better than she knows herself.  
     Towards the woman with hope and fear shining in her eyes like stars.  
     Her vision blurs as she nears, and she'll blame it on an inability to focus this close up as she ignores the errant tear or two making their journey along her cheek.  
     Then arms are about her, mending the wound, and all is forgotten.  
     All but the deep-seated remembrance of how to press her lips to another's and make them understand that she **means** it.  
     More than she's ever meant anything else in her life.  
     Because the simple reality is just that.  
     **She** means more to her.  
     And it might have taken Myka far too long to figure that out, but even that is forgotten as she feels the too long absent woman sigh against her mouth. As though some weight has been lifted, and she can finally draw a breath worthy of expelling.  
     And it's such a simple thing.  
     A kiss.  
     To change **everything**.


	3. Stay

* * *

     “I just...” Myka reaches out across the space that separates them, far too small to be considered a void, but that's exactly what it feels like. Her breath hitches as she inhales, tyring to force the words out calmly and failing. “I just need to be near you right now.” H.G. doesn't pull away as Myka's fingers brush her palm, then curve slowly around to grasp her hand in a grip that is almost painful. Dark eyes never leave glassy green.   
     Death had almost found them numerous times that day and its focus had been equally intent on them both. First there had been a coin, that Fate had spun and then all had seemed lost. Until it landed on its side and gave them a second chance. Then there had been a game of chess, in which taking and capturing made you the victor and left no room for relying on another to help you win. But they'd changed the rules, and Fate had spared them once more. Then had come the binding ropes of the Mary Celeste and a madman and his bomb, and Myka doesn't know how they keep doing this. Escaping death by the skin of their teeth. She doesn't know how many more times they can and the thought terrifies her, because Myka has always been about percentages of probability and chance of success, and she can **see** their time running out. Because people are only allotted a certain amount of it, only given a certain number of chances before that last one slips through their fingertips. Any of those near-misses could have ended differently, and she's not sure she'll ever be able to sleep again knowing that.  
     Knowing what she could have lost.  
     Knowing what her silence could have cost her.  
     “Please, Helena.” And she's so very tired of the silence. It deafens her. “Stay with me.”  
     The woman before her says nothing as she's urged across the threshold of Myka's bedroom and all is quiet as they shrug out of their jackets and pants and slide under the covers of Myka's bed.   
     And Myka finds that sleep does not elude her.  
     Not with Helena's assuredly solid form in her arms.  
     Not with the sound of the other woman's breathing breaking that mind-numbing quiet.  
     Not while she has something to wake up to.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N** : So I'm not really uploading these in any kind of order. Some I wrote a while ago, some have been written more recently, so if there's any drastic change in the writing style, I'm inclined to blame that. Unless it's something super obvious like I'm writing in the style of an Edgar Allan Poe poem.
> 
>  **Warning** : This chapter involves character death, skip ahead if that's not what you're looking for.

* * *

    "You said you'd follow me anywhere." But she sounds unsure, and the uncertainty fractures Helena's heart. She takes a step forward, closing the gap between them and takes Myka's hands in her own. Myka tries not to think about how cold Helena's are.

    "To the ends of the earth and back again, my love." And Helena's smile is radiant, like the first few brilliant rays of sunshine. They are in the clearing, the very same one where they'd almost destroyed the Janus coin, and Myka can feel the leaves crunch beneath her feet.

    "Then why won't you come back?" Myka's voice breaks, the weight of threatening tears too great, and her green eyes glisten. "Why won't you come back to me?" Helena's body, she knows, should be cool against her own like her hands had been, but all she can feel is the warmth of the other woman's presence seeping into her as Myka is pulled into an embrace that seems too tight, too loving, to be false. Long and dexterous fingers that have engineered wondrous contraptions that even the most inventive minds could not imagine stroke the length of curly hair with a gentle softness one might never expect, had they knowledge of H.G. Wells’ past transgressions. But Myka knows better.

    “I would live and die through a thousand lifetimes should such actions see me returned to you. See us live the life that neither of us found the courage to admit we wished to live.” But she may never know enough, and Helena’s words are a whisper against her ear. “I have loved you from the very beginning, Myka.” She pulls back, shifting a hand to caress the crying woman’s face as silent tears roll to their death along her cheeks. Dark eyes are piercing and so very full of life, and Myka almost smiles at the idea that Helena is as defiant in death as she was in life. Because she remembers the life being ripped from the woman, in a fiery inferno that stole away so very many things, and they should not be glittering with warmth. They should be pale and unseeing, there should be no remnant of Helena at all. And yet she stands, all familiar scents and affecting presence, and Myka’s tears find new strength. 

    “I love you so much, Helena.” And they are words not spoken until that moment, and the pain in them invokes a silent scream heard over innumerable planes of existence. Myka grips at her, fingers disappearing into a familiar pale blue shirt, and though her hold tightens she feels Helena slipping from it. And feels her soul depart alongside her. 

    “Do not forget, darling.” But there are lips on hers, feather light and desperate with so many things gone unvoiced, and Myka’s heart thuds weakly as it searches for a reason to continue beating. “All is not lost. There shall be no goodbyes. Remember the time, Myka. Time brought me to you, it shall bring me to you again.” And finds one, as it always seemed to, in Helena and her fading words. 

    Myka wakes. And she remembers.


	5. End Of Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got to wondering how Myka and H.G. might spend their apocalypse...

* * *

    Myka did her best to ignore the persistent banging coming from the direction of the door to her bedroom, pulling the pillow around her head to cover her ears.  
    "Pete, I am not letting you in here!" The banging stopped and she released the pillow in time to hear a high-pitched whine work its way through the wood.  
    "Myka." He wailed, stretching out that final vowel like a five-year-old doing his best "but mom". "If this is the last day ever don't you want to spend it with the people you love?" She heard the heavy thunk of what was undoubtedly his forehead dropping against the surface of the door.  
    "Yes." She barked, pulling the covers back up over her shoulders. "Which is why I'm not leaving this bed and you definitely aren't stepping a toe over that threshold." He gasped, a choking sound of mock-hurt, and she could picture him pressing a hand to his chest, offended.  
    "I see how it is." He said after a moment and Myka rolled her eyes in anticipation. "You'd rather spend your last hours with a former enemy," he raised his voice on the accusation and Myka shot a glare towards the sound of it, "rather than with your most loyal and dearly loved friends. Neigh, family!" A low chuckling shook the mattress beside her and green eyes glanced up to find mirth dancing in bottomless brown orbs. She scooted her body closer to Helena, who was propped up slightly against the pillows, and draped an arm around the woman's bare middle beneath the blanket that was covering her.  
    "Great!" Myka called out, bending her leg and sliding it to rest atop a toned thigh. "Glad you're finally clear on this." She laid her head against the reclining woman's shoulder and curved her mouth into a smile as Helena's laughter jostled her slightly. “Make him go away.” Myka murmured pitifully into the crook of a slender neck and the plea only made the inventor's laugh more exuberant.  
    “Darling, I've known the man long enough to understand that nothing short of an actual apocalypse shall stop him once he's set his mind to a task.” Myka felt lips against the crown of her head and she let her eyes flutter close.  
    “Mykes! Come on, let me-”  
    “Out of my way, Lattimer.” Claudia's triumphantly determined tone drew Myka's attention back to the door in a way Pete's whining never would have and she felt a knot of apprehension twist in her gut as the redhead announced, “Time to bring out the big guns.”  
    “Or the little picks.” Pete amended, and Myka could practically hear his frown forming. Then his words took hold and her eyes widened, head snapping towards the sound of their voices.  
    “Claudia Donovan, if you pick that lock you are so-” The door opened, swinging gently on its hinges to reveal Claudia kneeling at doorknob height and Pete standing with his arms folded across his chest behind her. Upon seeing them, a look of boyish glee blossomed across the man's face and Claudia barely made it out of the way in time before he was thundering across the threshold and towards the bed. “Pete! Pete, don't you dare-” He flung himself down onto the bed, just missing Myka as she squeaked and scooted out of the way, and he landed between them with the sound of air being violently expelled from someone's lungs. He lifted his head from the comforter to find Helena smiling wryly at him, hands clutching the blanket to her chest so that bare shoulders were the only thing he could see from the neck down, and then he glanced towards Myka. Fire and fury flashed across her face, burned in her eyes, and he decided that H.G. was a view that proved to be far more pleasant and he returned his gaze to her. Myka sent her attention towards the door and noticed that Claudia had vanished, but no sooner had she started to ponder the whereabouts of the young woman did the redhead return carrying an armful of DVD cases.  
    “We got in!” She called out over her shoulder, as she crossed the room and placed the stack of movies beside the small TV she was almost positive Myka hadn't once turned on in the four years she'd been lodging at Leena's Bed and Breakfast. As Myka seethed and the seconds ticked by, Steve finally appeared in the doorway and hovered there for a moment. Pete rolled over, shuffling so that he was sitting at the head of the bed, and slung an arm around both woman. Helena glanced sidelong at him, Myka shoved off his arm and then slugged him in the shoulder.  
    “Ow!” He withdrew his arm from around Helena and rubbed at his shoulder with a hand. “What was that for?” Myka stared at him, unblinking, and when he shook his head in confusion she threw a hand towards her open door.  
    “Get out!” Claudia pressed the power button for the TV and a blank blue screen greeted her.  
    “This isn't even hooked up to the cable!” She announced, only half incredulous, and looked over at Myka. “Dude, what do you **do** in here?” Then she pursed her lips, smirked and said, “Never mind.” She turned back towards the TV. “We can all **hear** what you do in here.” Myka let out another squeak of outrage.  
    “Out! All of you! Get out!” Steve shuffled in, closing the door behind him at Claudia's distracted gesture, and then flopped down into a low-backed armchair. Myka sent a glare toward all three intruders. “Am I on mute?” She fumed, turned her head to stare at Helena around Pete. The inventor offered a half shrug.  
    “There appears to have been some kind of mass-selective-hearing epidemic.” Claudia let out a cry of victory as the FBI warning flashed on screen, then she turned and threw herself horizontally across the end of Myka's bed.  
    “What was that, H.G.?” She asked, grinning without looking at the older woman. Helena rolled her eyes, but her smile was amused.  
    “Could I perhaps put some clothes on before we settle in for... a movie marathon?” She guessed and received a thumbs up from Pete.  
    “The best way to see an apocalypse through is with apocalypse-themed cinematic masterpieces.”  
    “But why does it have to be in **my bedroom**?” But Myka was fighting a battle that had already been lost and she knew it. Beside her, Pete shot H.G. a high-browed glance.  
    “You really naked under there?” He asked, inclining his head towards her almost imperceptibly. But there wasn't much that went on around H.G. that Myka didn't notice.  
    “Pete, I swear to god if you don't cut it out, I promise this **will** be your last day on Earth.”  
    All in all, the apocalypse felt a lot like every other day to Myka. Only slightly more maddening than most. But as the day rolled on and the end didn't appear to be any closer than it had been the day before, she couldn't doubt that it wouldn't have been a bad way to go out. Sharing a bed, albeit reluctantly, and a room with the people she loved.


	6. Happy New Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just some AU fluff to ring in the New Year! Happy 2013 everyone!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N** : Not beta’d because I’m a lazy shit. And I have to leave the house in like ten minutes. Here there be fluff. HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

* * *

     Ten minutes until midnight, the bar was practically buzzing with excitement. And excitement that Myka didn't particularly understand, but then again she'd never really been into the whole 'New Years' bar scene. Or the bar scene in general, come to think of it. But Pete and Claudia had somehow talked her into it, the constant nagging had helped, and she'd spent the last two hours sitting in a darkened corner booth nursing a rum and coke. The same rum and coke Pete had brought back with him, along with an orange juice for himself, at the start of the night. She wasn't really much of a drinker either. No, those days had gone the way of her teenage years and were now firmly settled in the past. Still, it was nice to watch Pete and Claudia, and eventually Steve, having fun. She'd even been coerced out onto the dance floor a few times by her friends, Pete's goofy footwork putting her at ease, but denied the come hither motion Claudia was directing at her with a shake of her head. She wasn't trying to be a killjoy, but this really wasn't her thing, and they knew that. Maybe that was why Claudia let her dismissal go with only a tiny pout.   
     She idly sent her gaze around the room, letting it land only briefly on the things that caught her attention. Dancing couples, Pete chatting up a hot blonde, Steve chatting up a hot brunette, the woman at the bar who'd been shooting her glances the entire evening. Myka looked away, feeling heat creep along the back of her neck. Claudia, in true nosy-Claudia fashion, had been the first to notice.   
     “You do realise you're totally being checked our right now?” She'd asked, causing Myka to start and jerk her heard around like she was looking for a prison escapee.  
     “I am?” Claudia's palm had come down hard against her thigh, slapping the bare skin below the hem of the black dress she was wearing.   
     “Dude, be more obvious.” Myka had blinked at her, owlish and oblivious, and Claudia had just laughed before subtly inclining her head towards the bar. “Smoking hot brunette at two o'clock. She has literally been staring at you for the last five minutes without batting an eye.” And she'd been a tad less obvious in her searching that time, eyes travelling over the backs of a few heads and skirting a profile or two before they'd locked onto a pair as dark as the dress she was wearing. Her breath had caught at the glimmer of amusement she could see in them, even from across the room, and she'd dropped her gaze. Though not before she'd spied the smirk curving artfully painted lips.   
     “That woman?” Myka had asked, and Claudia's eyebrows had shot to her hairline.   
     “Careful. You're dangerously close to sounding like a scandalized fifties housewife.” She'd at least had the decency to blush, especially when Steve had shot her an amused look. “Yes, that woman. The babe in wearing black like a second skin.” Yes, Myka had noticed. Her blush had deepened.   
     “What do I do?” She'd squeaked, and then instantly regretted it when everyone around her started laughing.  
     “You don't have to **do** anything.” Claudia had said, rolling her eyes, and Steve had taken a drink of his beer before adding his two cents.  
     “I say go for it. Start the new year as you mean to go on.” Claudia had cocked her head at him.  
     “As a lesbian?” And Myka had exploded, sushing them with violent hand gestures as Pete approached and abruptly ending that conversation. However, even though it hadn't been spoken of since, that hadn't deterred the woman at the bar. Not that any logic dictated it should, and not that her staring really made Myka all that uncomfortable. But that in itself did make her a little uneasy. Or, unsure, more to the point. And Myka didn't like being unsure, about anything. She prided herself on level-headed thinking, knowing the right thing to do at the right moment; she didn't enjoy being taken off guard, and that was exactly what the woman at the bar had done. Continued to do, every time Myka felt or caught her gaze. And it was, without a doubt, a gaze that could be felt. It prickled her skin like a heatwave.   
     She drained the rest of her glass as someone in the throng of people screamed “Five minutes! Get your kissing buddies!” over the sound of the music and humdrum of the crowd. Where had that tradition even started? Why were all the holidays about kissing? Christmas there was always mistletoe, Valentine's Day was a thorn in the side of every single person worldwide, and fine so that was only three including New Year but it was enough to make a person feel ostracised. Even someone like Myka, who had never really craved relationships like the people around her seemed to. She was more focused on getting good grades, acing college and university, climbing the career ladder. Sam had been the exception. And his death had left a heart-shaped hole in her chest that she hadn't been too concerned about, because she hadn't any plans to use it again.   
     “I hope you don't find this too terribly distasteful or overly forward,” then again, plans did have a nasty habit of upending themselves to send carefully placed bullet points scattering. Myka's head jerked up, the glass slipping from her grip to drop the half inch or so back to the tabletop as the accented voice, raised slightly to be heard over the hustle and bustle of their surroundings, met her ears. Her forest green eyes met oddly familiar brown and Myka swallowed convulsively. The woman from the bar was standing at the side of her booth wearing an easy smile, dark hair flowing like silk waves about her shoulders. “But I haven't been able to take my eyes off you all evening,” her heart gave a few overly exuberant thuds inside her chest and Myka was a little dismayed to find that they were some kind of precursor to a new, more rapid heartbeat that was threatening to render her incapable of breathing. “And I was wondering...” the woman paused, lips inching into a grin as she glanced down bashfully, an act that Myka would later wonder whether it had sealed the fate of the evening, and then met Myka's eyes once more. “I was rather hoping you'd do me the honour of allowing me to kiss you at midnight?” And her heart skidded right along her ribcage, shooting into her throat as though propelled by a slip-n-slide. She was sure, almost certain in fact, that her eyes had widened to the approximate size of her head and fleetingly wondered what that might look like. She was unconsciously gripping the leather of the booth bench, knuckles turning white with the pressure, and her lips parted to release a thoroughly unhelpful sound that was neither a gasp nor a whimper, but somehow lay somewhere between both.   
     Myka Bering did not panic. She was not flustered by criminals or her superiors, or dashing Englishwomen at bars. Except that that last part was apparently an egregious lie, evidence to which being supplied by the deafening silence that lay beneath the too-loud music and cries of the others occupying the bar. A silence that the woman before her seemed to find an answer in, because all too soon she was inclining her head in what would soon be revealed to be a silent farewell and turning away from Myka. And then a different kind of panic gripped her because she was suddenly struck by a disappointment so powerful, it made her feel vaguely nauseous. Unbidden, Steve's words floated back to her.   
     The material of the woman's shirt was a charcoal black and soft beneath her hand. Her fingers closed around a thin wrist and tugged, and it was kind of insane how her insides calmed at being face to face with the stranger once more. A little bit impossible, even. The woman's smile was bright, almost blinding, and Myka found herself returning it instinctively. Like it was the most natural thing in the world to be clinging a little desperately to a woman she'd just met and smiling like an idiot.   
     “I didn't say no.” She managed, aware that her eyes were probably screaming 'don't go, not yet', but whatever the woman saw it only brought her closer to Myka. Right into her personal space. Someone behind Myka's left shoulder blew on a noise maker and she cringed away from the sound, sending a glance towards the television set that depicted a brightly lit ball set above a timer that she watched flicker from twelve, to eleven, and then the room erupted into unified countdown.   
     “Might I ask your name?” Was asked into her ear, and the heat that had crept along Myka's neck was soothed by a shiver that trickled down along her spine.   
     “Myka.” She replied, once the woman had pulled back to look at her again. Her name was repeated in a different accent, as though the woman were testing the name out, seeing how well it fit. And then she smiled.  
     “Helena.” Noise makers accompanied the countdown, going off alongside the screams of numbers, and then they were at three and Myka's heart felt suddenly heavy in her chest because the woman, Helena, was ducking her head and leaning in and static was buzzing in her ears, making her brain fuzzy. She was minutely aware of the roar of the crowd, and then soft lips were pressed against her own and everything else in the entire world fell away.   
     Which was a terribly clichéd thing to think, she knew, but didn't alter the fact that that was exactly what it felt like. It was a gentle press of warmth and nothing more until Myka realised what was happening was somehow not enough, realised she, impossibly, needed more. More of a woman she'd just met, had exchanged little more than a name with, and who'd made her heart race in a way she hadn't experienced in years.   
     And Myka was a person who knew what she wanted, who rationalised things in order to get them. She was a person who knew her way around a kiss, despite the brief momentary lapse in memory she'd encountered for the first few seconds of theirs, and the sweep of her tongue across a waiting lower lip was sure and firm, and accepted without hesitation. Hands that were not her own seemed to burn away the material of her dress where they rested at her hips, holding her close as they lost themselves for a small eternity, and Myka wasn't sure when exactly hers had ended up cupping the other woman's face, but once she realised she made no effort to move them. Surprised at how content it made her feel to have them there.   
     And for all Myka knew another year could have passed them by as they stood there, oblivious to celebration going on around them. And they might have remained that way, had a burly thirty-something not stumbled into Helena on his way by them. He shouted an apology and then gave them a once over, a thumbs up, and wished them a “Happy New Year!” before moving on.   
     Myka's hands had come away from Helena's face and she absently lifted one to press two fingers to her mouth, expecting to feel arcing bolts of electricity as she stared off at nothing. But a dark gaze caught hers and held it, and after a moment Myka dropped her hand away. And smiled.   
     “Happy New Year.” Helena said, and Myka heard them even though the words were lost in the chaos.   
     _Start the new year as you mean to go on._  
     And she smiled. Because she had a feeling it was going to be a very happy new year indeed.


	7. Fight or Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: This chapter involves character death, skip ahead if that's not what you're here for.**

     She runs because she's long since forgotten how to stop. How to slow down, simply be still. She survives, not through a desire to do so, but because she doesn't know how not to. She's been a survivor her entire life. She'd endured the oppression that had suffocated the women of her own time, she'd survived the death of her daughter – though some may beg to differ on further examination of her state of mind – and she'd even adjusted to being thrown a century into the future.   
     A hundred years in cold and solid solitude had done nothing to ease her grief. She'd been pulled further into the darkness that called to her, whispered insidiously into her ear, wrapping gnarled and bony fingers around her soul. Squeezing the light from it, leaving it fragile and black. Flaking and cracking at the edges. And seeing the brightness of this new world, tainted and stained, had broken it impossibly further. All she had dreamed, all she'd hoped for, still out of reach. Mankind would never change and the proof of that lay all about her. And she had been so content in her rage.  
     And then there was Myka. Who had come like a phoenix rising from the ashes of a world that was destroying itself with each breath of life it took and spread her wings to show Helena a new side to this pitiful planet. She'd shown her that not all of her dreams had been dashed; they resided in her. In Myka. And she'd learnt that and so much more than she'd imagined possible as she spent her days earning Myka's trust and easing her way under the roof of the Warehouse. There had been laughter again, and light, and even love.  
     Myka had been everything Helena had thought lost.   
     And she'd snuffed out that glorious light with naught but the pull of a trigger.   
     Her days and nights are haunted by bright red exploding across mottled stone. By the sickening sound of a lifeless body falling at her feet. By a father's scream. By her own numb silence.   
     She screams in her dreams and her hands won't come clean.  
     It's Claudia who eventually tracks her down, finds her hiding in a dingy hotel room. Helena wonders if she merely got careless or if she simply stopped caring. Somehow it's fitting, to have this woman who was but a girl the last time the inventor saw her be the one to find her. There's so much anger in dark eyes that used to be so full of life. They'd been friends, once. Helena had felt a kinship with Claudia that she'd been unable to find with anyone else. The young protégée was a girl after her own heart.   
     It seems as though the same can still be said, to an extent.  
     “I hate you.” The redhead grits her teeth as she spits out the words and Helena sees the younger woman's finger tense against the trigger of the handgun she has trained on the inventor. There's a flash of Myka's face behind Helena's eyes, stunning and beautiful in her defiance, and then there's a spray of red, and all emotion drops away.   
     “I know.” And she does, as only one who hates just as equally can know.   
     She's never been afraid of death, being bronzed was never about that. But as she stares down the barrel of a gun, just like her beloved Myka had, she realises that while she's not afraid of it, she's never before been ready for it.  
     Claudia doesn't blink when she squeezes the trigger.


	8. Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another response to 4x15

* * *

    She realises her mistake almost as soon as Myka and Pete have departed.

    Can’t forget the look in watery green eyes as they peered at her through the open car window.

    Even as her heart aches for Adelaide, and for all the things the girl represents.

    Even as Nate asks his questions.

    And Helena cannot answer.

    Because each agent is allowed One. And only one.

    And Helena’s had drifted away like the breeze.

    There is so much uncertainty in her heart about this place, painful as it is to admit.

    And Myka Bering has always been the one thing Helena is sure of.


	9. Next of Kin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because there was a scene missing at the end of 4x20. ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N** : Spoilers for the tail end of season 4.

* * *

    When Myka dreams, she's alone. Walls of bright white surround her, blind her, drench her in sterility as the smell of bleach permeates the air. She wonders how much of her brain is drawing from her real life surroundings and how much of it is pulling from her memory, warped as it may be here.

    She's dressed in her hospital gown, fabric dashed with cartoon depictions of giraffes gifted to her by Claudia, and there are no tables or chairs or doorways. It's as though she's in a box that's all her own.

    It's suffocating.

    All at once she notices an imperfection: there is something hanging on the far wall, marring its pristine complexion and she's always struggled with her curiosity.

    Her steps are tentative and shaky, like she's forgotten how to move, and she wonders again where her brain is pulling that from.

    It's a chart. Her chart, to be specific. That which she hasn't actually looked at but which everyone else regards either with grim expressions or ones pumped so full of false hope it's a wonder their faces don't explode. There are days where she admires them and their courage, their ability to try. There are others that see her tune sourly changed.

     _Myka Ophelia Bearing  
    D.O.A._

    There's no confusion. No shock. There isn't even numbness.

    There isn't anything at all.

    And she wonders how long she'd been dying, before it finally took hold. Wonders why no one seemed to notice, why she herself hadn't. But then, she supposes she already knows the answer to that. An aching heart is all-consuming, after all. It can take the fight right out of a person, no matter how strong they consider themselves to be.

    She feels something pass behind her and turns to find herself face to face with an echo of a mirror image. This version of her looks less bedraggled, more alive.

    “You just let her go.” A chill runs through her at the accusation and her skin feels painful and sore. “How could you do that?” She stares at herself, into disappointed green eyes that are just a little bit more alive than she can recall them being the last time she'd looked at her reflection. And Myka feels anger surge a the question, white and hot. The kind she hadn't had the strength required for in a long while.

    “Even if I die in this bed,” the words are venomous and challenging as everything shifts and she finds her words ringing with truth, “I will **never** let her go.” The sheets that blanket her body are stiff and restricting, but with the words go a weight that she's felt pressed against her chest for longer than she can remember.

    Her doppelgänger smiles.

    Behind her bed, Myka hears her chart clatter to the floor.

~~*~~

    She blinks heavy lids open and finds herself drenched in white once more. The colour is harsh against her eyes and she lets them slip closed again for a moment. She concentrates on her breathing and becomes acutely aware of the pain in her abdomen. It's a hot throbbing that seems to swell outward the longer she dwells on it, so she opens her eyes again and inhales shakily.

    That's when she becomes aware of the presence at her side. The one that has lingered there for far longer than she can know. Had watched over Myka as she slept.

    Her fingers twitch in the hand that cradles them and a single tear slips free to trail along an ashen cheek.

    “You're here?” Her throat screams as the words crawl along it, scraping against skin turned tender by the breathing tube like sandpaper. Helena's eyes are dark and searching as they sweep over Myka's pale face in the wake of the unsure question. Because Myka could be dreaming again, she's had this one before. Helena smiles, one that's sad around the edges, and her thumb rubs with absent purpose over Myka's knuckles.

    “The hospital called me.” And Myka feels her heart thud at the unspoken implication; something had gone wrong. But at least it had brought Helena to her. “Myka, why didn't you tell me?” Helena, who was looking at her with such a mix of sadness and pain, and the love that had been masked the last time they'd been in one another's presence.

    Myka's chest hurts and her breath is unsteady as she gasps for it in an attempt to stave off the sudden wave of tears threatening to drown her.

    But Helena's there. Shushing her gently and leaning over to wipe the tears from her cheek.

    There will be time later. For talking, for explanations. For forgiveness. Somehow, Myka knows that there will be despite what Helena's presence here might mean. So she grips the hand holding hers and pulls Helena close.

    She breathes her in. Feels life fill her again.

    And beside her bed, Myka hears the heart monitor beep.


	10. Misery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I was thinking (a dangerous past time, I know) earlier about how I can’t really conceive of a way that Bering and Wells could ever ‘break up’ once they finally get together. Like, it’s not something that makes sense, at all, in my head. They’re soulmates. And soulmates are together forever. Always. I don’t think they’d fight in any way that came with serious ramifications or that they’d argue about money or anything other than the safety of the other. They wouldn’t cheat. They wouldn’t lie. They’d actually just be kind of freaking perfect.  
> And then I thought, “God, that’s kind of boring”, and I wrote this.  
> Angst monster ahead.

* * *

Everyone makes mistakes. She'd told you that. Once, before. Had breathed the words against your neck as she held you close, desperately. Like you were a lifeline, one that might slip away once more should her grip falter. She'd whispered them to you seconds before she'd pulled her head back to search your eyes for something she hadn't found, then leaned in and pressed her lips to yours for the first time.

It's memories such as these that make this harder. Make your hands still and hover, clutching a folded shirt, above the small brown suitcase you've been bundling things into. A door slams downstairs, shaking you from your reverie, and you glance at the garment in your hands before releasing a shaky sigh and depositing it on top of the neatly folded stack. You've always disliked packing. Myka had usually done it for you. 

There are footsteps upon the stairs, quick and loud as they approach, and you recognise their canter well enough to know who is now undoubtedly lingering in your doorway. Though, you suppose, it is one more Myka's doorway now. 

“You can't **leave**.” Claudia's voice quivers ever so slightly as she speaks. As though she's trying to control the emotion raging through her and only barely managing. You steel yourself, drawing in a deep breath before turning to face the fiery-eyed redhead. “This isn't fair and you know it! You don't get to pack up and leave us all just because-” Her words cut off as you wrap your arms around her, and any protest dies a quick and sudden death as you wrap your arms around her. This isn't easy. Nothing about this is easy. Nothing about it, she suspects, will ever become any easier for her. But Claudia will adjust. She's young and bright and brilliant, and she will adjust. You press a soft kiss to the top of her head and squeeze her once. 

“I must go.” And you pull away. Her eyes are glassy, tinted pink, as she gazes at you with a mix of longing and betrayal that you think must be so very confusing for her. And you wish you could stay. You wish it with every fibre of your being. But then you turn back to the suitcase lying open on the bed that you and Myka used to share, used to spend late nights and early mornings in. It's the bed in which you first truly discovered one another, first mapped the planes of her body with all the dedication of the most professional cartographer. It's the bed in which you first whispered of your love for her, while she slept nestled against you. But all you feel now as you look at it, is an unending ache and a near unbearable sorrow. 

Because it is no longer any of those things. 

Pete meets you on the stairs, his expression shadowed, face drawn. He reaches out, you presume to take the case from your hand, and though he does his hand first grasps your wrist. His brow is furrowed, eyes far more intense than you have previously enjoyed seeing them, utterly void of their usual mirth. 

“She's in the sitting room.” You feel your stomach lurch. You had so desperately hoped to avoid some kind of scene. “I tried to keep her busy but once she figured out what was going on....” He tapers off with a sad shake of his head and part of you feels a great sense of remorse over having to enlist him in your plans for escape. But you'd had few options and although you wanted this to be as quick and clean a cut as possible, another part of you knew all along that it would be a messy break at best. 

And so you smile at him, hoping to reassure the man – fellow agent, friend – that he has not disappointed you, that you are grateful to him for all he's done. And he seems to understand your intent, because he flashes a small, joyless smile of his own and backs slowly down the stairs, turning at the foot and bending slightly to deposit your case next to the front door. He straightens, burying his hands deep into his pants' pockets, and turns back to you as you hover on the last step. He looks pained, anguished, as though something is twisting and tearing him apart internally. 

He looks exactly how you feel. 

But you're H.G. Wells. And you are a master of hiding behind masks. 

Myka looks small as you enter the room and the thought is strange enough to startle you into stopping. This woman who is a force to be reckoned with in the field, who you know is no more a pushover than you are, appears little more than a cowering pup as she sits on the loveseat with her head in her hands. 

You can't count the evenings you've spent curled up together in the very spot where she now sits, watching films that Pete had insisted would not bore you to tears this time, or reading, or simply soaking in one another’s presence. 

You yearn for those moments even now, feel yourself ache so strongly for them that light-headedness momentarily grips you. Your eyes flutter and when they find the strength to refocus, she's looking at you with emerald orbs turned a blood-red at the edges. The rims of her eyes are a similar shade, swollen and puffy from crying, and that's all that you manage to ascertain before she's rising from the couch and moving towards you. 

For one terrifying, heart-stopping second you think she's going to touch you, hug you. And then the fact that that is now something you fear registers and the sickness that had settled in the pit of your stomach the previous day churns anew.

“Helena...” her voice is hoarse and raspy, as though from lack of use, or perhaps due to a night spent awake. Crying. You school your features in a way you have long since mastered, in a way you had grown accustomed to not having to while in Myka's presence, and she stops a few feet away. She brings her hands to her face, pressing the tips of her fingers to her lips as she draws in a deep, shuddering breath and an errant tear escapes. Your expression doesn't change. “Please, you can't leave, okay? We, we can, if we just sit and talk about-”

“I believe I've done quite enough talking on the matter.” Your voice sounds foreign to you, its cool crispness somehow offensive to your own ears. She reaches for you, instinct overriding all else until her fingers almost brush against the collar of your jacket, and then her arm drops away. Even now, standing before you, looking down at you in a way that had always made you feel a mile tall, Myka still seems small. Fragile. Broken. 

And she too, looks exactly as you feel. 

“Then we won't talk!” She says desperately, begging you with every word her frantic mind can't slow down enough to process. “But please, don't leave. I can't...” her voice breaks, breath catches, and she swallows. “I need you.” 

There is a weakness in you. One deep-seated and overwhelming, and it had lain undisturbed and sleeping for long over a century. It has vibrant green eyes and unruly ringlets, and wears a smile that has burned itself into your memory for eternity. And it is one that pulls at you, pulls you towards her, even now. After everything she's done. 

You take her in your arms, feel her powerful body tremble against you as her sobs are ripped from her. She clings to you, like a lifeline, whispers words of apology wetly against your neck over and over again.

And you want to feel something.

Anything.

Anything other than the cold and empty darkness that has flooded you, cloying and reeking of rejection and despair.

Then something else surfaces, as she's pouring her heart out across your shoulder. 

“Did he hold you like this?” The words flow from you, their acrid taste bitter and agonisingly satisfying against your tongue. Her pleas cuts off and she whimpers, you can feel her fingers fisting in the material of your jacket. “Did he fit against you as perfectly as I do?” A half-strangled sob leaves her as she presses her face against your neck, and you think she might be begging you to stop. But pain and heartache has always brought out the worst in you. “Did he whisper sweet nothings in you ear once you were done rutting against one another, or did he simply roll over and go to sleep?” And then you're pushing her away, your weakness fleeing in the face of fierce darkness. 

“Helena, please!” You're listening, but you turn away from her and pretend that you aren't. You pretend that you are brave and level-headed and strong. “Please. Please! Don't just walk away.”

You pretend that you care more about yourself than you do her. 

You pretend you aren't leaving your heart behind, here, in this room. The very room where it had been so effortlessly taken by her hand. 

“Everyone makes mistakes!” 

But sometimes, hearts shatter when they fall.

“They do.” You pause as you lift your suitcase and grip the doorhandles, but you don't turn to look at her. Nor do you turn to look at Pete and Claudia, whose presence you can feel at the top of the stairs. “But not all of us have to live with them.” And with a forceful twist of the wrist, you're stepping over the threshold of the Bed and Breakfast. Out into the sunlight.

Out into darkness.


	11. Perfect Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To ease the angst-burn of that last chapter, have some fluff. ;)
> 
> .... I think this counts as fluff....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N** : Inspired by [this manip](http://kayryn.tumblr.com/post/59506047609/just-you-and-me) made by Kayryn.

* * *

Myka lies perfectly still, breathing softly and evenly. It’s taken a little while for her to get to this place, where she’s not in danger of hyperventilating or blacking out or something else utterly ridiculous, but eventually it’s within her reach and she clings to it until she feels her body relax.

She knows she’s overreacting. Knows her body and mind are fighting that little voice inside her and what common sense remains.

But she just keeps reminding herself to breathe, and hopes. 

The mattress shifts beside her and her heart rate spikes, undoing all her hard work in an instant. Her breath catches and holds, and her ears strain for even the smallest sound. 

A quiet, gratified moan drifts towards her and she’s given the impression that the body beside her is mid-morning stretch when the mattress dips again and she’s enveloped from behind. 

"Is there anything more wonderful than waking up when one’s own body deems the hour fit?" Myka’s eyes flutter closed as warm breath brushes her neck. She doesn’t even try to come up with an answer and when slender fingers dip beneath the hem of her sleep shirt, one presents itself. Helena hums aloud, a sound of contentment. "Actually, given enough time to properly indulge, I’m sure I could come up with a few things." She feels the other woman smile against her skin and, seconds later, a kiss pressed to the same spot and her own smile is tremulous as it parts her lips. 

But still she doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Barely breathes now.

Eyes remaining closed, she simply allows herself to feel Helena at her back. Feel her weight and warmth and the way her fingertips skip across her abdomen and dance over her ribcage.

Feather-light. Teasing. .

"Myka, are you all right?" She feels Helena tense, feels her mind overworking and questioning things, feels her almost pull away. And finally, she moves. She reaches out and grips Helena’s forearm, holding her in place. The hand against her stomach stills, palm flush against her skin. Myka feels her muscles twitch and jump. Helena shifts impossibly closer, pressing her cheek against Myka’s shoulder. "Talk to me."

Her thumbnail scratches against porcelain skin without rhythm for a few beats until her hand drifts along Helena’s forearm and closes over her knuckles, thumb looping to rest against the underside of the inventor’s fingers. She takes a steadying breath, feels Helena’s hand squeeze her own.

"I just…" Myka blinks, watches a bird leap from the tree outside her window and take off into the bright blue sky of the new day. "I can’t believe you’re really here." Her vision blurs, but only for an instant. She won’t cry; there’s no need for tears now. 

Myka feels Helena lift her arm, careful to take both hands with her, and slip the other between the mattress and her side. A delicate nose brushes against Myka’s nape and shivers trickle along her back.

"I’m only sorry it took me so long to get here." 

Myka’s eyes close once more and a smile curves her lips.

Time has never held much meaning in their story.


	12. Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She'll remember everything.

She’ll remember this day for the rest of her life.

The mid afternoon sunshine that beams down at them from a cloudless blue sky. The smell of the blossoms that drift from the tree they’ve called home on a gentle breeze, dashing the day with pink. How green the grass is and how awkward it was to walk across it in heels. How the blades feel against her bare feet now that she’s removed them.

She’ll remember the silken material of her simple gown and how it fits her so perfectly. How she felt pretty in it.

Pete’s indescribable glee, Claudia’s happy tears - the way she vehemently denied them - and Steve’s quiet smile. She’ll remember missing Lena, but feeling her unmistakable presence all around them.

She’ll remember it all.

But what she’ll remember most is Helena.

Her nervous smile, flashed hesitantly in Pete’s direction when she thinks no one else is looking. But Myka hasn’t taken her eyes of Helena since the day they met.

The way the sunlight glistens off the silver chain of the pocket watch that hangs down out of the pocket of the waistcoat she wears. It hugs her torso in a way that makes Myka’s heart sputter and she’ll remember the exact shades of white and grey that Helena is wearing.

She’ll remember the jet black of her hair and the pale porcelain of her skin, and she’ll remember the way she catches sight of Helena’s profile as Myka approaches. How it felt like she was seeing her for the first time. There’s a rush of awe and she’s floored by beauty and for an instant she forgets to move, to think, to breathe.

Helena is all there is and time runs in slow motion as the woman seems to sense her, and turns.

She’ll remember how meeting Helena’s eyes did not feel any different than any other day.

Indefinable. Unimaginable.

There’s longing and love and an understanding that neither had previously known. There’s a sense of *knowing* that runs deeper than the time they’ve had together.

There’s the way Helena looks at her. Makes her feel beautiful. Makes her feel wanted. Makes her feel whole.

She’ll remember the silent walk down the aisle as the air around the gathered people hums with love. She’ll remember the way Helena’s features shift and she swallows nervously, how it’s over in an instant but Myka misses nothing when it comes to her.

She’ll remember their vows, the words etched into her memory with gentle hands.

She’ll remember the kiss. (The gentle pressure of Helena’s hand at the back of her neck.) Like she remembers every kiss. (The way her skin heats and prickles pleasantly.) And how it always feels like the first. (Feels like forever.)

She’ll remember the way the clouds rolled in - much later, when the ceremony was done and Pete had eaten most of the food - and how everyone rushed inside to avoid the shower that was certainly about to grace them with its presence. And she’ll remember how Helena pulled her closer, how she smiled, and the feel of the rain of her skin as they continued to dance.


End file.
